Film Review: Disney’s lovely animated “Tangled”

Watch Disney’s Tangled

Tangled; Disney's best animated effort since 1991's "Beauty and the Beast."

All that about “John Reviews Pretty Much Anything” never said anything about “fast” or “timely,” am I right? Right. Anyway.

Disney’s 50th Animated film, Tangled, was released back in November, and I’m guessing that most of you probably missed it in theaters, which is a shame. I didn’t catch it until (close to) the last week. It’s available on DVD now, and I hope you’ll check it out if you haven’t. It’s Disney’s best effort since Beauty and the Beast. Yes, music aside, it’s better than The Lion King—which, despite that astonishing opening sequence and fantastic score, never did find a middle act. The animation is, in a word, stunning. And learning from their compatriots at Pixar, Disney absolutely nailed both the story and the characters. It’s been a while, Disney animators. Welcome back. You were missed.

The backgrounds have a painted look that would have pleased the famous "nine old men" animators who crafted the timeless Disney classics like "Snow White" and "Bambi."

This is a 3D computer animated film, but don’t let the technology fool you. This is old school Disney, with all the warmth and charm of the very best of the films you remember. The backgrounds have depth and texture and a downright painterly look—those are backgrounds of Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs and Pinocchio quality. Rapunzel’s forest tower (shown above) is stunning, and the castle alone is worth the price of admission (or, now, the price of a DVD). That castle, with its surrounding hamlet, is old school painted Disney, sure, but the fly-overs that take advantage of newer technology would make Disney’s famous “nine old men,” the last of the old school animators, swoon with envy. Disney has created a rich and textured environment for this film—a world of forest towers, dodgy taverns, and charming castle villages that I found myself aching to explore.

More, the characters actually seem to fit into the environment. While clearly computer-generated, they seem a part of the scene—something that couldn’t be said of some of Disney’s lesser efforts, even when every frame was hand-drawn. While Disney animation’s Pixar siblings raise the bar with every effort, the animators behind Tangled have wrought some wonders with light that will be hard to beat. When (spoiler alert!) Rapunzel leaves her tower for the first time, the sunlight seems more real and natural than anything I can remember seeing in animation, whether crafted by paintbrush or keyboard. A scene with floating lanterns (pictured below) comes close to beating it.

In "Tangled," Disney accomplishes miracles with animated light.

That horse is a Disney horse.

And while I miss the hand-drawn Disney classics, and look forward eagerly to the next one, whenever it may arrive, I have to admit the tool the artists use doesn’t seem to matter. Tangled just feels like a Disney film—not like a Pixar film (and I say that as a huge, die-hard Pixar fan). Oh, the Pixar touch is there—Pixar’s chief creative officer John Lasseter had his fingers in the pie, and it shows. But the result is a better Disney film, not a Pixar clone. In fact, Tangled feels more like classic Disney than the last hand-drawn (and stunningly beautiful) effort, The Princess and the Frog. There’s a horse in this film that has more charm and personality than any Disney animal sidekick since, well, since the prototype, Jiminy Cricket himself.

The characters are wonderful. Somewhere, Walt is smiling.

It’s the characters that make this film succeed where so many recent animated films not crafted by Pixar (and so many films in general) failed. All of them—from principals to it players—have personality and, well, life. There is a moment between Rapunzel’s parents, the grieving mother and father, that carries more genuine emotional weight than I’ve seen in a dozen lesser films. That moment, communicated with a look and a touch, and not a single line of dialog, is heartbreaking. Like all Disney fairy tales, Tangled is a love story, but here, the love grows slowly and feels earned. That makes a difference. The voice talent, especially Zachary Levi from televisions silly, fluffy, and woefully under-appreciated romantic adventure series Chuck (somehow, it always makes me grin).

Despite the familiar story and formula, Tangled actually manages to feel fresh.

The story is as familiar (for Heaven’s sake, if you don’t know the story of Rapunzel, look it up—read the original and see the film) as the Disney fairy tale princess formula through which it is told. Nonetheless, it has an attitude (think The Princess Bride) and a lighter than air panache that makes it seem fresh. There is self-aware irony in the wit, sure, but (again like The Princess Bride) it works as a post-modern comedy and as a romantic fairy tale adventure. That’s a hard balance to achieve, sure, but Tangled pulls it off.

If I have two complaints (that’s not really an “if;” I do have two complaints) they’d involve the marketing and the music. The marketing for this film was, in word, bland. None of the freshness, life, charm, or Princess Bride wit came across—that’s why I nearly missed it in theaters. And does anyone remember any kind of celebration about this being Disney’s 50th Animated film? To me, that’s the kind of milestone that deserves to be celebrated. Heck does anyone remember any marketing at all? In all seriousness, I am sure I saw a trailer or a commercial—I must have. But I can’t remember a single one. Bland is not the secret to a successful, audience-atttracting campaign.

Memorable wit, memorable characters, memorable adventure—and utterly forgettable songs.

Second, the very best Disney films have always had scores that you can hum—usually after hearing them just once. Think Whistle While you Work or Some Day My Prince Will Come from Snow White, or When You Wish Upon a Star from Pinocchio. Or You’ve Got a Friend in Me from Toy Story and When Somebody Loved Me from Toy Story 2. Or Be Our Guest from Beauty and the Beast. Or heck, anything from Jungle Book or Mary Poppins (that last one isn’t fair, I suppose).

I think the marketing team might have been responsible for the tunes in Tangled. (Actually, that’s not true—it’s Alan Menken, who crafted unforgettable songs for Beauty and the Beast and The Little Mermaid, so frankly, the blandness here is just baffling.) Sure, they are pleasant enough. The love duet is pretty enough, I’ve Got a Dream (sung by thugs in a pub—really) is grand fun, and the wicked stepmother sings a song called Mother Knows Best, or something along those lines, that drips with evil wit. The problem is, I can’t remember a single line from any of them, and couldn’t hum a note if I had to. Just try to get Chim Chimney or Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious out of your head. Just try.

Thankfully, neither of those nitpicks ruin a fun little film with genuine wit, heart, and adventure that deserves a bigger audience than it found. I hope it finds new life on DVD. After all, the best Disney films deserve to be shared and passed down. So what did y’all think?

Hard Cider Review: Magner’s Irish Cider

Try Magner’s Irish Cider

Continuing to answer my requests for more cider reviews, after my reviews of Crispin’s The Saint and Browns Lane, I offer a few words on a hard apple cider imported from Ireland: Magner’s. In fact, if forced at gunpoint to name a favorite “everyday” cider, this is probably the one I’d choose. There are two primary reasons. First, it’s delicious. Second, it’s almost universally available. My beloved Marley House, Mac McGee’s, and McGowan’s pubs have it on draft (most of the establishments here in pubtopia do, I think). Last night, I even found the bottles in bar in a bowling alley. My opinion of bowling alleys has gone up a notch or two.

Magner’s pours a lovely red-copper-gold, and its aroma carries citrus and floral notes as well as the expected apple. There is very little carbonation. The mouthfeel is medium. The taste … well, sweet apple with a bit of balancing tang from the alcohol. You’d expect that from a hard apple cider. But honestly, most ciders have tastes beyond what you’d expect, like the maple and Trappist yeast in Crispin’s The Saint.

Magner’s is almost surprising in its basic simplicity. In fact, I’ve even heard it criticized for being basic. Honestly, I just don’t get that. The more exotic ciders (again, like The Saint) are just that: exotic. They are special occasion ciders, if there’s such a thing. Magner’s is more like a good, favorite table wine. It’s (almost) always available, always dependable, and always delicious.

Magner’s is crisp, red-apple sweet without being cloying, and quite refreshing. In a word, it’s satisfying in a way that too few products of any sort are. Magner’s is the perfect alternative for a night at the pub when you’re just not in the mood for beer (in theory, that could happen).

It’s best served very cold (in Ireland, it’s usually poured over ice), and is mighty tasty with food, or just on its own. It also defies seasons—I tend to think of it as a refreshing spring/summer afternoon pick-me-up, perfect for a deck or a ballgame. But honestly, it’s also very nice in autumn and winter. In fact, I’ve had hot winter drinks that use it as a base, and they are amazing.

There is nothing especially unusual or distinguishing about Magner’s. It’s just a nice, slightly sweet, well-balanced, and delicious cider. Sometimes, that’s exactly what you’re looking for. It’s a staple for a well-stocked fridge. As always, please feel free to use the comment space to let me know what you think.

Book Review: “The Magicians and Mrs. Quent” by Galen Beckett

Read The Magicians and Mrs. Quent

I was about halfway through reading, and thoroughly enjoying, Galen Beckett’s The Magicians and Mrs. Quent when I decided to pop online to check out the reviews. It’s a rather irritating habit (irritating to me; I can’t imagine that anyone else cares), but I like see if every one else agrees with my own assessment. The first review I read (I tried to find it again to link, but alas, it seems to have vanished) offered this critique: “nothing new.” For the record, that doesn’t seem to be the majority opinion, but frankly, I can’t say I disagree. None of the ingredients, or few of them, anyway, are what you’d call groundbreaking. But then, it’s not always the ingredients that make the stew; it’s how they’re mixed. Sure, The Magicians and Mrs. Quent is pastiche. But it’s very good pastiche. Outstanding, even. My wife and I took turns reading it aloud to one another, and we had an absolute blast.

The Magicians and Mrs. Quent is a fantasy set in an alternate world that has strong echos of an England that would be familiar to Jane Austen and Charles Dickens. In fact, the author’s voice is a deliberate pastiche of Jane Austen’s in the opening chapters, and of the Brontes and even Dickens in latter ones. The plot certainly carries with it echoes of Austen and the Brontes: comedy of manners, a strong emphasis on marriage proposals, a gothic country house where the brooding but romantic master hides a secret, falling ill in someone else’s house, the entailed house, and couples carefully (and at times sadly) avoiding the “inappropriate” marriage. Not to mention a Dickens-worthy subplot concerning a young man of good family fallen on hard times and working as a scrivener in a counting house to provide for his frail sister.

The echos extend beyond plot: Beckett does a terrific job of suggesting the wit, atmosphere, and mood of his sources without merely mimicking them. More, he does it without ever coming across as stilted, dated, or musty. He strikes a pace and tone that’s decidedly modern. More, he writes complex, fully-developed characters that are of their time and culture—his women, especially, are strong and determined even a restrictive age that Austen would recognize. They are not anachronistically feminist or democratic, for example. But they’re not pushovers, either. They are compelling. Nonetheless, the structure of their society places restrictions on men and women of all classes, although to the modern reader, at least, the plight of women and the poor are more likely to make us cringe. Women, for example, are not allowed to perform magic (a story reason is given, but it’s a spoiler so I’ll avoid talking about it) but the lively, intelligent, and charismatic young heroine, Ivy Lockwell, consoles herself with historical study, thereby placing herself in a position to become a hero.

The cosmology in Beckett's familiar yet strange world is not like ours, and signs in the sky auger a dark future, creeping inevitably closer—and possibly tying in with the madness of our heroine's magician father.

Beckett doesn’t shy away from the sex and class restrictions of a society that reflects the England of Austen and Dickens. Nor does he use the tropes of an alternate fantasy world to sidestep them. Instead, he uses them to build compelling characters and to tell a story that’s truly gripping. He doesn’t skimp on the world building, either. While Beckett’s in Invarel is a mirror of Austen-era London, it has a cosmology that is utterly unique, and a subtle, creeping mythology that as unique and delicious as anything in, say, Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell. His descriptions are vivid and lovely to read—especially his word-paintings of the shadowy underbelly of the Illusionists shows on mysterious Durrow Street, or the streets and alleys were dark-clad highway men prowl, or the taverns and coffee houses where students and intellectuals question authority in whispered tones.

I should say something about the story, although it’s not really one that lends itself to a paragraph. Our heroine, Ivy Lockwell, is the unmarried daughter of a family stricken with poverty after her magician father went mad. She meets the aristocratic Dashton Rafferdy (I would have called him dashing, but you knew that already, didn’t you?) and, despite obvious mutual attraction, can not pursue a relationship. Rafferdy, meanwhile, has strange and unsettling encounters with a gentleman magician. Ivy travels from her home to become a governess at the country estate of Heathcrest, a Bronte-analogue complete with a brooding and mysterious Rochester stand-in. Soon, Ivy discovers an ancient story wrapped in the dark mythology of a sinister wood, still working its will on the world. And I haven’t even mentioned all of the lead characters! Mysteries, romances, magic, illusions, cons, dark prophesies, and even revolutions abound—enough to keep you turning the pages long after bedtime.

The Magicians and Mrs. Quent is complex, but the pace is relentless, the story gripping, and the characters unforgettable. It’s a page turner with smarts and depth, and its a terrific, truly fun read. I hope you’ll give it a try.

One sequel, The House on Durrow Street, has already been published, and another is coming. I can’t wait.

Hard Cider Review: Crispin Browns Lane Imported English Cider

Try a pint of Crispin Browns Lane Imported English Cider

A pint of Crispin Browns Lane Imported English Cider, poured into a frosted mug.

A week or so ago, I reviewed one of Crispin’s special ciders, The Saint, finding it surprisingly complex and quite delicious. After that, I decided to try some more of their products. Especially since I had numerous requests for more cider reviews (well, four—not counting one specifically for an Ace Pear review—but I don’t often get requests to review, well, anything, except by book publicists, and I aims to please). So, ready and eager to do my duty, I picked up a four pack of Crispin Browns Lane Imported English Cider.

“Bittersweet” is one of those overused terms that long ago reached the status of cliché. Nonetheless, it remains one of the most poignantly ironic contradictions in all of English, a language that excels at paradox. The official description of Browns Lane claims that it is pressed from traditional bittersweet English cider apples, and if ever a product deserves to be called bittersweet, it is this one. It’s bitter and it’s sweet.

It pours with a very light, effervescent carbonation and a pale gold color, about the shade of, well, apple juice. That’s not as much of a “duh” as you might think—ciders have a surprisingly wide range of hues, ranging from so pale it’s almost clear to a deep reddish gold. The scent … well, I guess that is a duh. Apples.

Bittersweet English Cider Apples look pretty much like any other regular old apples, apparently.

The taste is surprising. After the gentle sweetness of the Saint, I’d expected something similar from the Browns Lane. Not so much. The first taste is tart, mouth-puckeringly so. So much so that it look a few sips before I decided that I liked it. The sweetness that you expect from is there, certainly, but the sharp tartness almost (but not quite) overwhelms it. It’s not as refreshing as Crispin’s other ciders, but it has a dry, well, uniqueness that grew on me, sip by sip. It’s bitter; it’s sweet.

The Browns Lane truly excels when paired with food. I tried it with my own secret recipe creamy chicken and wild rice soup, and later with a nice slab of delicious prime rib with red potatoes. In both cases, the sharp flavor complimented, and even enhanced, the flavor of the food, like a good dry wine. While The Saint is as good (or better) on it’s own, the Browns Lane is one to pair.

My tastes run to the sweeter side of the cider scale, especially when you can find well balanced ones like Magner’s Irish, Ace Pear, or Crispin’s The Saint. Nonetheless, I found the Browns Lane interesting enough to buy again, although I’ll save it to pair with meals, rather than simply popping one open on a warm summer afternoon. I also applaud Crispin for offering such a wide range of flavors. While I find some of their offers better than others, I have to say: they are all interesting, and they absolutely refuse to be pigeonholed with just one style. In my book, that’s quite a compliment.

One final note: the label suggests that Browns Lane should be served ice cold. They’re not kidding. When the English, of all people, suggest serving any beverage ice cold, take them at their word.

I’ll have at least two more cider reviews this month (see the paragraph above for some hints), as well as music and book reviews. So please stay tuned. As always, thanks for dropping by.

Beer Review: Baudelaire Saison Ale from Jolly Pumpkin Ales

To be honest, I wasn’t sure what to expect when I picked up a bottle of Jolly Pumpkin’s Baudelaire Saison Ale. The label seemed Parisian, somehow—the Paris of Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec and the Moulin Rouge. For all it’s many amazing qualities (it really is the most beautiful city I’ve ever visited, and the Disneyland there just rocks), Paris isn’t really a city one associates with beer. Baudelaire is from Michigan, not France, but still, Paris is what the branding suggests. Also, for a craft ale, it’s label is, well, girly. Beer labels usually feature rugged rocky mountains, or patriots, or pirates, or wild dogs. Or at very least, bundles of, you know, wheat or something. This one? I mean, just look at it:

It has rose petals in it, for cryin’ out loud. And rose hips. I’m not really sure what those are, but they sound girly. That said, it comes in one of those great big bottles that holds enough to to fill two glasses—perfect for sharing. You know the ones I mean—big, manly bottles like the ones you see pirates swilling rum out of in the movies. So curiosity got the better of me. My wife might like it, anyway, I decided. She’s in to all the arty French stuff. Besides, it also has hibiscus in it, the stuff that’s in that good Jamaican tea. And some of the best writers and philosophers salons ever have sprung up in Paris. Maybe they’d drink something like this there, at least when the absinthe ran out.

See what I mean about the head?

The pleasantly strong and bready aroma is apparent as soon as the bottle is opened. It’s wheaty and yeasty, with subtle hints of fruit—dried orange, maybe—and floral notes. It pours a ruby red (like roses, of course) with one of the thickest, creamiest heads I’ve ever encountered. It reminded me of a root beer float. The taste surprised me—it wasn’t nearly as sweet as I was expecting, although there was a very subtle fruity, floral undertone. The hints of sweetness, as a matter of fact, came mostly in the very pleasant, lingering aftertaste. Almost like a white wine.

The grains dominated the first and most obvious wave of flavor, reminding me of a cross between a Belgian wheat beer and a hoppy American craft ale in the Anchor Steam/Samuel Adams tradition. There is a rustic farmhouse rawness there that I didn’t expect, but that I quite enjoyed. I can’t say I tasted the rose petals (actually, I have no idea whether I did or not—I have no idea what rose petals taste like), but there was a gentle, almost lemony flavor that balanced the wheat grains and yeast nicely. That, with the slightly bitter, hoppy finish, made the flavor balanced and quite refreshing.

Overall, I’d call Baudelaire Saison Ale a very pleasant surprise. We paired it with Italian food. It held its own admirably, offering terrific flavor without overpowering the meal. It wasn’t girly at all. It’s well worth purchasing, especially to share over a good dinner.